


One For The Team

by general_ginger



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brocky's Really Horribly Bad Day, I had fun putting together my own STRIKE Team Alpha, M/M, Whoever guesses who Johnson is based on deserves a cookie, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-12 06:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/general_ginger/pseuds/general_ginger
Summary: A HYDRA mission to retrieve secret research data has gone terribly wrong, leaving Rumlow injured and bedridden after taking one for the team. They all show they care, in their very own ways.





	1. Intro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brock Rumlow takes one for the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been ages since I've written anything, I'm rusty as heck and I should actually be working on my thesis, but Hydra Husbands has taken over my life and I need to get this off my chest. This has not been beta-read and English is not my first language, so feel free to point out any mistake I haven't spotted. Or really weird phrasing.
> 
> I took the freedom of putting together my own STRIKE Team Alpha to tag along with Rumlow and Rollins' adventures (or, well, a small portion of the team for this specific mission). Bear with me, I love them. You can find a few more thoughts on the characters in the notes at the end of this chapter.

„—bones? Hey—“

The ringing in his ears drowns out the voice, and Rumlow blinks— _tries_ to—to clear his eyes of the grit and dust and _is that blood_ —

* * *

 

When the world returns to him with a soft buzz of noises and muted light, the STRIKE commander believes for a very short, anxious moment that he must have gone blind. His hands find his face— _searing heat_ —and meet with soft gauze covering his cheekbones, eyes and forehead, but it’s still all there, even though his head feels like it is being split apart, a sharp pain that radiates through his skull and settles in a throb right underneath his skin. Rumlow groans, his voice cracked and raw, and drops his hand back on the mattress— _way too hard for his stiff muscles_ —beneath him, and remembers.

* * *

 

"Tell me again why we cannot just remotely hack into the system to steal the files?" Johnson‘s voice mirrors the annoyance that Rumlow secretly feels himself, deep down, yet hides for the sake of his team; her upper lip is curled in an almost vicious snarl that makes the tall woman appear even _more_ terrifying than she usually does. She flicks a strand of her pale blond hair back as she cranes her head to get a glimpse on the tablet that Lewis holds next to her, squinting to decipher the map on its screen.

Mansoor, on her other side, jolts when the small transporter passes over a pot hole, adjusting the straps of his bulletproof vest before he replies patiently, even though his quiet sigh implies that this must be the umpteenth time that he answers the question. "Because their system is not connected to _any_ external network. Which means that we have to be physically _present_ to access their database." His dark eyes dart around in the dim light, the van mostly lit by the Lewis‘ tablet and the one that Rumlow himself holds on his lap, briefly meeting the commander’s unnverved gaze from the bench across from where they sit. He is nervous, Rumlow notes; and even though he knows perfectly well that the anxiety of their newest member will vanish the moment they set foot into the underground lab and he gets his hands on a computer or any other kind of funky technical device, it still jars on his already strained nerves.

He has half the mind to snap at both of them to shut their fucking mouths when the transporter hits yet another pot hole, hurtling him against his second-in-command sitting next to him. The broad man barely reacts, merely uttering an audible grunt as he takes the impact, stony and brooding as every other day. A nudge—more of a shove, really, and maybe he _should_ have a word with the Australian about his insubordinate behaviour—of Rollins‘ elbow prompts Brock back into an upright position, his shoulders uncomfortably pressed against the metal hull of the van. HYDRA missions offer even less comfort than those they carry out for SHIELD, and they come with difficulties on top: no names, no ranks, no patches, serial numbers or other distinctive features on their weapons or clothing that might lead a keen observer back to their true identity. Not to mention that the safehouses are downright _shit_ , and yet every new one they stay in is _worse_ than the last.

The squabble between Johnson and Mansoor has died down and shifted to a silent brooding as the female agent goes back to studying the lab’s map together with Lewis, annoyance making way for concentration as she—again—memorizes the path they planned and trained for, along with alternate routes that would take them to the server room and back in case anything went wrong. They are all sweating in their heavy tac gear, the stifling heat of five bodies in the transporter’s back not exactly helping along, and the team utters a collective sigh of relief once they feel the van slow down and come to a halt at their destination. Rustling accompanies their final check of gear and weapons, though intel suggests that they would not need their black market MSBS rifles. The lab, formerly used by a research group that branched off from some obscure fascist organisation going by the name of _Thule Society_ that Rumlow has never heard before this particular mission, was supposed to be manned by no more than a skeleton crew of security personnel; most of the equipment and specimens having already been shipped to other locations that they are yet to track down. No big deal, just a routine mission. Get in, have Mansoor do his hacking magic to steal the remaining research data, get back out, leaving a trail of dead security.

And, well, that is where everything goes wrong.

* * *

 

The doctor later tells him that he was lucky to get out with a few broken ribs, a ruptured kidney, second degree burns on his face and neck and the worst bruising his body has experienced thus far; that he might have easily gotten killed instead. All he remembers is Johnson’s shout of warning before his body acted in reflex, shoving Rollins to the ground and covering him before the—admittedly elaborately hidden—booby trap exploded in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brock Rumlow (Commander) – grumpy before the first coffee (and afterwards, too), cocky bastard, really he’s an asshole and people wouldn’t be able to stand him if he wasn’t such a good commander. Treats his team fairly, contrary to all rumors. Would never admit it, but he loves that sometimes annoyingly disorganised bunch. Loathes paperwork, which means that he’d rather not bring anyone home in a bodybag.
> 
> Jack Rollins (Second in Command) – broody, silent, sometimes borderline sadistic. Really, don’t get on his bad side. Responsible for having Brock’s back, relaying (read: barking) orders to his teammates and making sure some poor recruit retains a steady flow of coffee towards his commander. Brilliant sniper. Loves knives. Probably sleeps with one underneath his pillow.
> 
> Christie Johnson (Agent) – tall, blond, buff; her muscular thighs could probably crack a skull. Muscle of the team. Excellent when it comes to CQC. Enjoys blowing shit up, which is most likely why she joined HYDRA. Owns a concerning number of high-heeled shoes. Will break your toes with them if you dare laugh about them.
> 
> Khalid Mansoor (Agent) – the newbie of STRIKE Team Alpha. No one really knows how he passed the physical requirements because he looks like a light breeze might blow him away. Outwardly anxious with a little twitch to his fingers, he turns really, really calm the moment you let him work on obscure technology. Could probably hack the Pentagon. (HAS hacked the Pentagon.)
> 
> Connor Lewis (Agent) – responsible for intelligence analysis and mission logistics. Recently started tagging along more often to ensure no one gets lost AGAIN (dammit, Westfahl). Don’t get in front of his rifle – despite a focus on working behind the scenes, he knows how to use one. Rumored to have drunk Captain America under the table.


	2. Mansoor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the newbie visits his commander, ft. Kraken the Cactus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not beta-read, following no proper storyline or arc of suspense at all and mostly self-indulgent. Enjoy reading.

Mansoor is the first of his team to show up, two days after Rumlow has been transferred from the shabby little infirmary in their hideout to a proper SHIELD medical facility, clutching a pot with a cactus—a truly nasty thing, the commander decides—between his hands. “It's ugly as fuck, whatever that is,” Rumlow says, for the sole purpose of watching Mansoor's failed attempt of hiding his indignation at the scathing comment. Poking fun of the newbies and recruits may well be his second favourite pastime; right after chugging down amounts of coffee that would give a supersoldier a heart attack. The kid is almost adorable when he fumbles for his composure like that, switching between a nervous laugh and a frown and back to that mildly anxious look as if he might burst into tears any moment—but in fact, despite his jittery behaviour, the commander has never actually seen Mansoor cry, not even when he took a bullet to the shoulder during his very first mission with the team.

_Rollins would have told him that the little desert-dweller and him made a good couple, with their shared hideousness, or maybe to stick the spiky plant up his arse; but Mansoor is not Rollins, is tense and easily flustered yet pleasant despite his nervous chatter, and he still cannot easily judge how far he can go with the commander._

“How are you feeling, sir?” The lanky soldier has taken a seat in the visitor chair crammed into the corner of the private hospital room—a rare luxury that Rumlow is incredibly grateful for, sparing him a snoring roommate—and looks at him expectantly, fiddling with the small pot in his hands. It is painted, the commander notes; bright colours and flourishes, most likely from Mansoor’s native country. His eyes linger for another moment as he puts together a proper sentence against the foggy haze of painkillers. “Fabulous,” he grinds out after a while, “just, y’know, bit achy an’ all that. The regular, after almost getting’ blown to pieces.” The words come out a little more passive-aggressively than he intended, but he does not take them back, maybe even revelling in the way Mansoor twitches and his sympathetic smile falters. Brock fucking Rumlow needs no sympathy, thank you very much, especially not for injuries acquired in the field. The scowl gets his point across, because the younger man sobers up, finally ceasing the erratic movement of his hands.

“I didn’t mean it like that, sir,” he tilts his head at this, expression solemn, “of course you’re in pain. You shouldn’t have—it was unnecessary, you shouldn’t have done that for us, taken the damage. Your life is more important than ours.” He means it, Rumlow realises; that little shit quite obviously does not appreciate his own life at all, or his comrades’, the realisation almost making him sick. He values loyalty, greatly so, loyalty to the team and HYDRA and _the cause_ —and it is likely that this is why Mansoor is part of the organisation, and not because he hacked the Pentagon at eighteen—yet seeing it displayed so openly is _terrifying_.

Rumlow, being the man he is, of course hides the emotion, and barks out a laugh. Bad choice; his face _burns_ from it, and his chest protests painfully. “Yeah, sure, easier to get a bunch of new recruits than to replace an officer, huh? Guess you’re right, kiddo.” He settles back into the pillows, shifting to stare up at the ceiling again, a hint that he’d rather be left to rest. Mansoor, the ever-attentive twat, takes it and leaves—not before carefully placing the brightly green cactus on the side table next to his superior’s bed and offering another reassuring smile.

_Then why did he take one for the team?_


	3. Lewis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they need to hide whiskey.

"Pierce wanted the report, so I finished a draft for you. You only need to check and approve it."

Lewis is a safe visitor. He doesn't ask questions Rumlow isn't ready to answer, and immediately gets to the point, wasting no time with unnecessary pleasantries. He brings a bottle of whiskey—Rumlow's favourite when they're out for a drink together, the whole team—even though he knows he cannot drink it right now, when he's still healing and on heavy medication and all that. (Not that he himself would mind, but the nurse might kill him if he saw and he’s kinda scary and the one in power here, so they hide it in the drawer.)

The tablet with the report on his lap, Rumlow skips through the text. He trusts Lewis to hand in proper documents, seeing as the dark-haired analyst is usually that one teammate who gets stuck helping him with piles of ignored paperwork; but with those HYDRA-disguised-as-SHIELD missions and the god-damned code they need to use for those, one can never be too careful. After all, neither of them really wants to end up on the wrong end of the Asset’s gun. Or knife. Or metal arm. (Rumlow once watched him plunge the titanium prosthetic straight into an enemy’s chest to crush their heart. He was glad that he had skipped breakfast that day.)

“Lookin’ good, all in all.” The commander hands the tablet back, hissing under his breath as the simple movement of stretching over to his subordinate painfully jostles his fractured ribs. “Any news on why everything went to shit out there? I thought we had reliable information on that fuckin’ place being close to abandoned.” Usually, their very own mission prep team is too thorough, checking and double-checking and _triple-checking_ every single, tiny detail, for this kind of thing to happen. The slightly pained look on Lewis’ face tells him all he needs to know. “It was a set-up, wasn’t it. Those fuckers knew we were after their research.” Rumlow curses, running a hand through his mussed (and frankly, kind of disgusting) brown hair.

“That is what we’re currently suspecting, yes,” the agent affirms carefully, warily observing his face for any signs of anger, but for now Rumlow appears surprisingly composed, merely glaring daggers at the brightly-lit ceiling. “There is evidence that the images and videos taken of the mission site are either outdated or faked—not by our own contact there, but someone further down the line of information. We have yet to trace that back to the source, so we’re both questioning key players in our intelligence network and analysing the files’ metadata.”

At the mention of _questioning_ , the commander straightens up against the raised head end of the bed, cocking a brow. “Who’s in charge of the interrogations, Rollins?” Internal affairs like that are usually dealt with by his second-in-command and his eerie fondness of knives, scalpels, and other sharp tools meant for hurting people. Much to his disappointment, Lewis shakes his head, albeit slightly amused by the surge of enthusiasm. “No, Yelchin. Rollins is busy keeping the team together, while you’re—well, _preoccupied_. Someone has to make sure they don’t go ballistic during your absence. After all, missions without your presence suffer a performance drop of thirty-two percent. Best if you get back on your feet quickly, Commander.”

That is about as much of a compliment as he would ever get from the analyst, as Rumlow knows, shooting him a toothy grin in return. “Aw, never thought you cared, Lewis.”

They exchange some more small talk (mostly complaints about how ridiculously slow the full-time analysts are at decrypting the—most likely compromised—research data they found), but Rumlow all of a sudden finds it hard to concentrate on it and leaves the larger part of the conversation to Lewis, until finally using the excuse of needing rest to kick him out of his hospital room.

_Lewis cares._

_His **team** cares._

_Maybe…?_


	4. Johnson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone is too clever for their own good

There is a fresh bruise on Johnson’s pale face, high on her cheekbone, her hands wrapped in elastic bandages, hair damp—it is all Brock needs to know that she came directly from sparring with Rollins, fresh out of the shower. She does not even bother sitting down on the (arguably uncomfortable) plastic chair in the corner, instead opting to lean against the wall opposite of his hospital bed, feet planted against the floor to balance her impressively trained body. The scowl on her face is permanent, almost as impressive as Rollins’ but posing less of a danger to anyone else but cheeky recruits, but the commander has come to like the sharp tongue and even sharper humour she hides with it.

“You look like shit, commander.” Anyone else and Rumlow would smack them around the head with the tray holding his lunch, or maybe even try to hit their eye with the fork he uses to stab at his peas, but sigh her he merely shoots a glare that would shrivel a grown man’s balls while his lips twitch with a suppressed smile. Companionable banter, a game where they both poke at each other’s weak spots to see who snaps first, and sometimes it escalates into a mock fight, or an actual one. But right now the commander is almost relaxed, seeing how his injuries are healing well, leaving him mere days from being discharged and going back to work—maybe not back in the field for now; but at least back to catch up on paperwork and leads on their traitorous informant and the endless stream of coffee that he has secured through terrifying poor little recruits fresh from the academy. Instead of snarking back at Johnson he gives up on trying to single-handedly murder every pea on his plate—his favoured hand still connected to an IV—and settles comfortably against his pillows.

“ _You_ , on the other hand, look rather satisfied with yourself, soldier. Anything I should know about? Did you finally murder Westfahl?” he enquires, smirking at the thought—the lack of patience Johnson holds for their most useless team member is famous even beyond STRIKE Alpha, manifesting in a not-so-secret bet among various other agents on how long it would take for her to bludgeon him with a chair. It would be a glorious moment, and Rumlow would make sure to have it immortalized on video, whenever it would happen. He is mildly disappointed when Johnson snorts, flicking her damp hair back, and makes a face as if he had kicked her puppy. (Which, in her case, means that she looks like she wants to kill him painfully. He knows how much she loves that 85 pound pure-bred hellhound of hers.) “I wish, but I still haven’t figured out how to make him falling into a woodchipper look like a casualty. Sadly.” She shakes her head, sounding way less apologetic than she technically should, planning the brutal and non-accidental death of a fellow teammate. (Rumlow cannot honestly blame her.) “No, just got in a few nice punches with Rollins. May have cracked his nose.”

If she notices her commander’s expression flitting to a purely contradicting and mildly confusing mixture of _fuck is he okay_ and _wish I’d been there, to watch the blood gush from his nose_ , Johnson at least possesses the rare decency to keep her mouth shut and not dig in deeper. Instead she picks at one of the scabs on her strong forearm, looking almost bored; and that finally directs Rumlow’s attention away from the mental image of Rollins’ bloodied face and back to her. “You know, you don’t _have_ to be here, Johnson, because you look like you’ve got something better to do than visit your team leader who just _happens_ to be stuck in a fucking sterile room without even a cute nurse to look at.” His voice rises a little in volume towards the end, his previous high spirits now soured when he realises that he is about as bored out of her mind as his subordinate looks, itching to get back around his team. Back into the field, where he can make sure that they get shit done and return in one piece instead of body bags filled with sticky, red goo. It is unfair to snap at Johnson like that and let his frustration out on her, but he does not give a flying fuck.

And anyways, she probably deserves it for mentioning Rollins, who still has not cared enough to come visit him despite being his SIC and _owing him_ because if it hadn’t been for him, it would be the moody Australian in this bed, not him.

Johnson, being the smartass she is, sees right through the façade he puts up; and Rumlow doesn’t need to be Charles fucking Xavier to realise that she _knows_ just what seems to have sparked this shift of his mood because she does not even bother hiding her shit-eating grin. “Y’know, Rumlow, maybe he’d stop by if you quit hiding behind your fragile masculinity and just shot him a quick message that you want to see him,” and, before the commander can get a single word of protest in, she adds, “Or you could just scream for him like you did back there, when you almost got barbecued. He’s a couple doors down getting his nose fixed.”

Johnson leaves, wisely, before he can hurl the tray at her head.

Five minutes and a few aborted attempts later, Rumlow manages to bring himself to aggressively push the call button.


	5. Rollins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gayness ensues

They pass the first two minutes staring at each other in tense, awkward silence, but in the end it is Rollins who caves in first. "You're a bloody fuckin’ idiot, you know that?"

His nose has been taped, but the expanse of skin around it is bruised, blotches of red and purple, and no one has thought of—or dared—to clean away the spray of blood covering the lower half of his face, giving him this feral, animalistic quality that Rumlow has secretly become to enjoy on him. It also looks fucking painful.

His SIC does not stop at that, stomping up from the corner next to the door to stand beside his bed, looming tall over where he is propped up against the pillows, lunch tray forgotten on the nightstand. Rumlow can see his hands clenching and uncurling again, almost as if it takes the Australian all of his sparse self-control to not punch him in the face to watch his tender, healing skin break open again. The commander halts his train of thought right there to rise his chin in stubborn challenge, his eyes narrowing to stare Rollins down—or, well, in reality he has to crane his neck to glare daggers _up_ at him—in what is his the most withering, fearsome expression that he can muster with all the bandaids plastered to his face. “Yeah, and why the fuck is that, shithead?”

Rollins’ shoulders are heaving, and for a very brief moment he is certain that this is the end of the line, bracing for an impact—ready to protect his face, because that is the second most valuable thing on his body, right after his murder abs. It does not come, instead Rollins slams a hand down on the nightstand, sending the offending peas he had to fight one-handedly mere thirty minutes earlier scattering across the tray, some of them escaping to the floor. “Gettin’ yourself burnt to a crisp like that, that’s why. Risking your fuckin’ life and the mission, _that’s why_. Never asked you to do that for _me_ , fuckface.” He sways faintly, as if he wants to lean forward further and then decides against it, before he retreats from the bed with a growl to rest against the wall next to the nightstand, still glaring down at Rumlow as if he wants to murder him with his eyes. Though by now, it appears that he is less angry at his commander and rather at himself, but for what, Rumlow fails to figure out. And so he tilts his head with a confused frown, wetting his lips as he tries to make a sense of the situation and what to say to his SIC—who claims so openly to hate him for what he did back there in the underground lab, but nevertheless came bursting through the door after he had informed the nurse that he wanted to speak to him, _ASAP,_ thank you very much.

His obvious confusion only serves to make Rollins more furious, if that is even possible. He rakes a hand through his mussed hair, damp with a mixture of sweat and remains of hair product, cussing when his fingers catch on a knot. “You could have _died_ back there. For fuckin’ _nothing_. Pierce would’ve torn me a new one if I let that happen, are you aware of that? Would’ve sent me to be you-know-who’s new toy.” His voice is rougher than usual, probably due to his broken nose, Rumlow notes; and his tone would have made a rookie squeak in fear. Not him, of course, even though it is hard to deny the shiver that runs down his spine. He sits up a little straighter to hide it, and to give a little more bulk to his body so he would not look as small compared to the huge soldier _that still keeps staring at him like that_. Like he wants to tear his spine out or something.

“Well, quite obviously I’m still alive, or you couldn’t stand here and nag me like that, like you’re some whiny little kid who almost lost their favourite plushie or somethin’,” he snaps, but there is little fire behind it, because even someone as insensitive as him realises that there is more to the almost helpless anger that Rollins puts up as a front right now. He almost feels mean for saying it, once the words have left his mouth. _Almost_. His words hit home, though; and before he can fight back or even just _flinch_ , large hands grab onto his worn grey SHIELD tee and yank him up hard enough that he can _feel_ his damaged ribs bend in protest. Rollins’ face is close enough that he can hear the grinding of his teeth, smell the coffee and cigarette he had during his last break on his breath. _That’s it_ , he realises, that’s how he dies: not torn to shreds by a booby trap, but with a snap of his neck, kudos to the man who is supposed to have his back in the field. Instead, miraculously, the grip on his shirt relaxes after a very long moment of staring at each other, and Rumlow finds himself almost gently lowered back against the pillows.

“I was worried.”

He barely catches the words, uttered quietly, almost as if they are directed at no one else than Rollins himself, but they hang in the space between them nevertheless. Stopping short of asking him to repeat himself so he can make sure that he did not misunderstand, Rumlow nods instead, because those three words shine a new light on the whole damn situation, even though he is still uncertain of how to react. He doesn’t have to, in the end, because Rollins sits down on the edge of the bed next to him, turned awkwardly so he can look down at him. All of a sudden, returning that softening gaze become too much, forcing Rumlow to stare at the ceiling instead.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine.” And, after a moment, after a deep breath, he adds, “I had you back there.”

That elicits a snort, half a laugh, rare as it is with Rollins. “That’s my job, fuckface. I’m the SIC. I get to take the bullets for you.” Their hands almost touch with how close they are now, the fine hair on the back of Rollins’ hand tickling the inside of Rumlow’s wrist. With all of the touches they usually exchange—exchanging punches when sparring, pressing together in crappy safehouses to share the heat, brushing shoulders during transport to missions—this feels different. More intimate.

Rumlow almost smiles. “Sorry to be such a disappointment as your commander.”

“ _Wouldn’t want to serve another one_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo there's that. I hope someone found enjoyment in reading this - it was actually somewhat therapeutic to write for me!  
> I may or may not have a small plot bunny for a oneshot with an established relationship between these two jerks lined up, but first I need to finish my goddamn paper. Stay tuned.


End file.
